Writing till my fingers bleed or die of boredom

My diversity would surprise you.

Not really, it would probably just bore you, but I'll tell you anyway.

Most of my scribblings get into the glamorous publications: the Inspirational Chicken Soup of Chocolate Cups with a Dollop of Sentiment Series, (I'm sure you've heard of them--Another release in October!) the discriminant Internet, this blog, and even a coffee can in Seattle.

But the rather unglamourous portion of the program, the infomercial to my life's work, is in a local print magazine which pays me to write about crosswalks and power outages.

Every month I write my book review and interview, and any other slush that hasn't been picked up by someone else. And every month I write volumes of words on mundane subjects that I know no one reads--not even me. It is within these humble pages that I justify my life as a writer--at least in the eyes of the IRS--because it is my bread and butter, even if it is just the heel of the loaf.

Well, tonight, I covered a meeting in which again, I believe no one pays a lick of attention, and sometimes I'm tempted to write, All good men must come to the aid of the party over and over again just to see if anyone notices.

Well, apparently someone does notice, because after the meeting a very nice gentlemen sought me out before I bolted as quickly as possible to shake my hand and tell me, "Thank you for all you do for us. You do a great job." Please note: as in ongoing.

No, sir, thank you.

And in other news, even with this meeting, a book review, a trip to the grocery store, a workout and an afternoon at a friend's pool, I still managed to pen a page to le Novel.

Go me.